The Set
by Ged
Summary: Utterly irreverent and guaranteed to offend everyone. A Season Three spoof on everything OC. 'Take 3' up. Apologies for the delay. Blame life. I do. Frequently.
1. Chapter 1

**The Set**

_**Author's note:** _

_An aberration and much-needed diversion from post-finale Ryan-angst. Character names have been used for obvious reasons – think outside the square!  
__Have absolutely no idea where this is going, or whether it will continue, but I'm enjoying the ride.  
__Set mid Season 3._

…………………………………………………………………………………

Ryan stared at the script and scowled. Two shirtless scenes, one chaste kiss, a fist thump, a dramatic exit and nine lines. Thirty-two words, to be exact. Throw in a handful of glares, a couple of thoughtful glances, a head lowering or two, and that was the sum of his part. He sighed. It seemed the longer he acted, the less he said, which was kind of stupid when you thought about it.

'Hey!' Seth interrupted, plonking himself beside his buddy. He waggled a sheaf of papers. 'Have you read this one? Apparently you and I go on a road trip, get lost in the desert, make out under the stars and then you kill me in a fit of regret. Kinda _Brokeback_ meets _Othello_, but without any of the subtleties.'

'Why do you read that stuff?' Ryan sighed. He hated reading fan fiction. Some of it was good, most of it god-awful and all of it reminded him of everything he could be but wasn't.

Seth shrugged. 'Beats reading the script. You know what they say: one man's fantasy is another man's entertainment.' He glanced at Ryan. 'What's eating you today?'

Ryan tossed the script to the ground. He was tempted to stomp on it, but in plain view of everyone, didn't dare. 'The usual,' he muttered.

'You wanna know what I think?' Seth asked finally, as they sat and stared across the lot. Ryan didn't, but Seth ploughed on regardless. 'Ya gotta change your image, man. Ever since wardrobe did the dirty on you and took away your leathers and cut your hair, you haven't been the same. C'mon, Ryan! Seize the day! Go up to Josh and say, "Give me back my clothes!"' He chortled, but Ryan couldn't see the humour.

The problem was, Seth was right. He'd returned from filming over the summer hiatus to find, like Sampson, he'd been done over, weakened, a shell of the character he'd been. The angst was but a shadow that dogged him faithfully, toothless and benign, and he was forced to flit between scenes like an extra; an afterthought of writers intent on changing the direction of the show. He sighed again.

Seth cast around for something positive, but all he could come up with was: 'You've still got the best trailer.'

'Aren't I the lucky one!' Ryan remarked sarcastically

'Watch out!' Seth hissed, _sotto voce_. 'Here comes trouble.'

Ryan glanced up. Marissa glided past, impossibly stunning in nothing but a tee-shirt and sweatpants that threatened to slip from her prominent hips and expose the long, long legs that carried her above any crowd. Wishful thinking, Ryan thought sourly. Sadie hurried along beside her, in jeans and a too-small shirt with buttons that strained across ample breasts. As though reading his dirty thoughts, both girls glanced over and Sadie waved a finger warningly. 'Remember Ryan, no tongues!' she called. She and Marissa exchanged looks and giggled.

He scowled and raised his hand, almost giving her the finger before flipping it into a stiff wave. _Bitch! _No tongues, no kissing on the neck, no nuzzling the ears, and absolutely not, under circumstances, was there to be any hint of breast fondling. Damn it.

'Leave all that for the bad guys,' Josh said when Ryan had complained way back in the first season.

'I thought I was supposed to be the bad guy,' Ryan had argued.

'God no!' Josh had exclaimed in horror. 'You're merely the unfortunate victim of circumstance, trying to better himself.'

More like the victim of castration, Ryan now thought bitterly.

'That's gotta hurt,' Seth commiserated, watching them saunter away, glad Summer wasn't around to dig him in the ribs.

Yeah, it hurt, Ryan acknowledged. Particularly since Volchok, who drifted in Marissa's wake like pond scum, his lascivious eyes directed at her lovely bottom, had clearly been written in to seduce her with rough sex. Some guys had all the luck.

'Fancy some chilli fries?' Seth asked brightly, after they disappeared. Seth always sought comfort in food.

'Nope,' Ryan decided. 'Garlic.' He returned Seth's high-five as they wandered off in search of compensation.

……………………………………………………………………………….

Everyone fidgeted at the table. There should have been some excitement generated by the impending read-through, but as the cast thumbed through their scripts muttering dispiritedly, it was plain that all was not well.

'I'm drinking again?' asked Kirsten miserably. 'I thought that arc finished long ago.'

'At least if you cut yourself you wouldn't bleed a hundred-proof,' retorted Marissa, counting the number of hip flasks she had to empty this episode.

'How many times can you legally marry?' questioned Julie. 'I've single-handedly done more damage to women's independence than centuries of middle-eastern religion.'

'What about me?' exclaimed Sadie. 'Ryan ditches me, not once but twice, and I still don't get to slap him.' She waved away the scent of garlic wafting across the table and glared at Ryan.

Sandy snapped, 'Consider yourself lucky. I've gone from champion of the underdog to cut-throat mogul in three episodes and I'm saddled with an ungrateful wife, a dithering, pot-smoking son and a supposedly troubled ward who's just this much shy of being sainted.' He held a thumb and forefinger in the air, the bewilderment in his voice unconcealed.

Seth acknowledged him with a wave. 'Love you too, Dad.'

'Not as much as you love me, apparently,' quipped Summer, who had, as always, been distracted by Sandy's eyebrows. She watched, fascinated, as they bobbed up and down with every word and she longed to stroke them. 'Hope you've been brushing up on those Karma Sutra positions, Cohen.'

'Don't mock,' reprimanded Taylor. 'It was all for a good cause.'

Not mine, thought Ryan, miserably.

Volchok, who hadn't bothered to study the script, and had been staring at Marissa's breasts and dreaming of tomorrow's scene, smirked at Ryan, who this time did raise his finger.

The door opened and a team of writers trooped in, their scripts held up as though to ward off the glares fired at them by the waiting cast. There were the usual apologies, which no-one liked to make and no-one else believed, before scripts were opened, papers shuffled and pencils sharpened. A not-so-discreet cough from the head writer got everyone's attention and, with no discernible enthusiasm, the cast began to read.

Ryan's thirty-two words were slashed to twenty-seven.

…………………………………………………………………………


	2. Chapter 2

_**Take Two**_

Taylor adjusted her baby pink twin set and checked the contents of her handbag one more time: two pens, a sharpened pencil, a sharpener (in case, God forbid, the pencil wasn't sharp enough), a small notebook containing endless lists and schedules, three tissues, a lipstick holder with spotless mirror, a brush, a comb, three hair pins, two ribbons, two tampons discreetly housed in an itty-bitty velvet pouch, a small vial of perfume, and a diary, sadly bare of any social engagements. She sighed. Who the hell lived like this?

Having never watched the show during the first season, when she'd first read her part in The OC, she'd thought the title to reflect that oft-used abbreviation for obsessive-compulsive, and naturally assumed the show to be about her. To say her disappointment still smarted was an understatement.

She parted the blinds and peered out of her trailer. Seth was there, rubbing his arm and hurrying to catch up with Summer. Clearly he'd said something to upset her. Again. And there was Ryan, pretending not to watch Marissa as she bent to pick up something she'd dropped. Volchok skulked behind, unshaven and lean, on the prowl. He was like an alley cat and Taylor shivered as she imagined his hands on her. But that would never happen, she thought, regretfully. Marissa would be the one to experience those hands. Marissa, Marissa, Marissa. It was always about bloody Marissa.

It was bad enough that she'd ruined Ryan for the rest of them; poor emasculated Ryan who'd been led on so much he'd become like a pony at a children's fair, everyone jumping on his back, kicking him in the guts to get him moving, then jumping off again. Currently it was Sadie's turn to trot him around the well-worn circuit, after which he'd no doubt be put out to pasture for a while before being led back into the ring for another session. Meanwhile she, Taylor, stood by the fence, ticket in hand, waiting for her chance to leap on. She'd gather up those reins, urge him into a gallop and together they'd jump the fence and she'd ride him … and ride him … and ride him … oh dear, wait! She gripped the edge of the window and fanned herself with her other hand until the heat dissipated. She was getting carried away and, really, what was the point? It was only television, after all.

And though Ryan's lot might not be ideal, Taylor reasoned more calmly, at least he was getting some. Oh yes, Ryan had Sadie, Seth had Summer, Julie had Neil, Marissa had Volchok. And Taylor had … her handbag. What was wrong with this picture, she wondered.

The one and only time she'd been hooked up with someone, he'd turned out to be a megalomaniacal bully twice her age, as wooden as Pinocchio and not nearly as attractive, while the only reference to her even knowing what sex was, let alone experiencing it, lay in half-hidden hints at that disgusting liaison. She really had to get a life.

'You want me to do what?' she'd shrieked at Josh last week.

'Counsel Seth and Summer,' Josh replied. He was a little surprised by her reaction. He'd have thought she'd jump at the chance.

'Well, of course,' she countered sarcastically. 'Because it makes so much sense that I should give sex ed classes to two of the Fab Four.'

'Actually,' Josh said, calmly. 'It does. It's exactly the sort of thing you'd do, which is why you're going to do it.' He eyed her scornfully. 'And I've told you before, it's the Core Four, not the Fab Four.'

She glared at him. Did he realize how stupid that sounded? What the hell difference did it make whether they were the Core Four, the Sore Four, or the Four who Bore? All she knew was she wasn't one of them. She was the pitiable fifth wheel, that annoying appendage one has no idea what to do with; an unenviable situation that left her up in the air and kept her agitating for more interesting storylines. Sadly, this wasn't one of them.

'C'mon, it'll be funny,' he'd cajoled.

'So now I'm the comic relief?' she'd asked, aghast. 'I thought that was Seth's role.'

Josh shrugged. 'It's hard to be funny when you're stoned. No one else laughs at your jokes.'

'And what about me, Josh? Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. Is that it?' she argued.

'It can be,' replied Josh. His threat was barely veiled.

'So what do I get out of it?' she asked at last, mutinously.

'Nineteen lines and five scenes you wouldn't otherwise have,' he retorted.

She thought about that for a minute, and figured any petition for the Betterment of Secondary Characters could wait.

'Well, put like that, I guess you have a point,' she conceded. It was only television after all.

…………………………………………………………………………………

Ryan leaned forward to kiss Sadie. This was supposed to be _the_ moment. That eagerly anticipated transition from friend to lover, longed for since her arrival on the show. She was cute, she was intelligent, she was kind and she was understanding; everything his battered ego needed. Naturally, this meant her days were numbered.

'Remember,' Josh had admonished earlier. 'This is all about tenderness. Three ingredients of romance: Seth and Summer do familiar warmth; Marissa and Volchok do lust (Ryan had scowled at that); you and Sadie do tender. Got it?'

Yeah. Tender. Like meat. And it was easier said than done, Ryan thought, jarring his elbow on the floor as he lowered his new girlfriend to the floor. 'Shit!' he groaned.

'So romantic!' quipped Sadie beneath him. She slapped away his hand as it automatically sought her breast.

'Touché,' he replied, moving his hand to her head and pulling on her hair. She winced and deliberately turned her face away as he tried to kiss her.

'Christ, you're heavy,' she moaned and wriggled to get more comfortable. She nuzzled his neck and ran her fingers down his back.

'Christ, you're a bitch,' he countered and, finally capturing her face between his hands, kissed her mouth to shut her up.

'Good,' called the director. 'That's good. Now the clothes.'

Ryan peeled Sadie's top from her body. He had to imagine how she looked because he couldn't actually see anything on the darkened set. 'Can't we have some fucking light in here?' he called. 'I can't see a thing.' He bent to kiss Sadie again and found her nose.

'Just keep going,' a voice yelled. 'You're doing great.'

Easy for you to say, Ryan thought, as he knocked his knee against the leg of the coffee table and Sadie groaned against the hard floor. She unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders, kissing his chest.

'God, your breath stinks,' she snarled, trying in vain to avoid the garlic fumes. She lifted her face to his and he kissed her again.

'Glad you noticed,' he panted spitefully. She really was lovely.

'Cut!' yelled a voice and she pushed him off her and scrambled to her feet.

'Pig!' she spat, picking up her tee-shirt and stalking off.

'Cow!' he called after her. No reason why she should have the last word.

Later, as they were reviewing the dailies, Ryan squinted at an almost black screen. Josh came up behind and clapped him on the back.

'Great chemistry you two have' he crowed. Ryan looked at him dubiously. Were they watching the same scene? 'You make quite a pair, you know. We'll dub this with some good music, show a few close ups and the fans will be in ecstasy.'

Ryan glanced back at the screen. You could show this in fucking high-definition technicolour, zoom in two hundred percent and it still wouldn't help. The fans were going to need night-vision goggles to see anything. He was struck by a horrible thought: if he had sex and no-one was able to witness it, did that mean it hadn't happened?

………………………………………………………………………………

Josh wasn't having a good day. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to call any day 'good'. 'Bad' was a fading memory too. 'Terrible' was now the norm, with 'fucking god-awful' making more than a casual appearance. He stared at the computer screen morosely. _Everyone's a critic_.

He hated TWoP with a passion. Even more than he hated fan fiction writers, with their badly written quick-fix solutions to his creation. He was beginning to sympathize with God, He who might have some understanding of his predicament, having Himself endured millennia of complaints. People were just so damned _ungrateful._

So, a few of his characters had lost their edge. So, some of the story arcs were just a little predictable, while others barely struggled past conception before being abruptly aborted. So, the music, which had been such a staple of the show, was now just being rehashed in flashback montages that served no purpose. So, the acting was wooden; the scripts woeful; the spontaneity gone. So what? It wasn't like he wasn't trying to fix it. Now, suddenly, the fans were the experts. What the hell did they know? A single hour – actually forty minutes if you discounted the ads – of their week was spent watching the culmination of his life's work; the other one hundred and sixty seven hours were spent tearing it apart.

A knock at the door tore him from his self-pitying reverie.

'What is it?' he called impatiently.

Stephanie, the new and lovely temp, pushed her platinum head around the door. 'The market researchers are here,' she announced.

Josh motioned her to bring them in. A bevy of suits followed her into his office, introductions were made, hands duly shaken and cards exchanged. Josh stared at the one he held: Gregory Donovan, Market Analyst. And underneath it, in bold black letters: **Watch & Weep**. It didn't exactly inspire self-confidence.

'Well gentlemen,' Josh began. 'I gather you have a little information for me that might prove useful.' He was understandably nervous, having not bothered to inform any of his producers that he was seeking outside analysis of the show. The company had their own team of market researchers and he was taking a big risk by using an untried entity. But desperate times called for desperate measures, Josh reminded himself, squaring his shoulders and preparing for the worst.

Donovan cleared his throat. 'Yes, indeed we do. Before I begin, let me give you a brief outline of our procedure. We took your last episode to air as well as the latest one and selected an across-the-board OC audience to watch and give us necessary - and in some cases, unnecessary - feedback. They were required to answer a series of questions and were then asked to make their own observations about the show, the actors, the sets, the music and so on. We then analyzed all these observations, made note of the more significant or helpful ones, or those that appeared most often, and thus created a statistical analysis of the episode and the viewers.' He took a deep breath. 'It took a lot longer than I had anticipated.'

He motioned to one of his sidekicks, who left the room and returned dragging a large sack behind him. Too early for Chrismukkah, thought Josh. The sack was upended so that the contents spewed across his desk. Josh shrank away instinctively.

'As I said, it took a long time to sort through it all,' Donovan said, a trifle smugly.

'Er … some of these observations … some of them gave positive feedback, right?' Josh whispered, horrified.

'Some.'

'And how many viewers in the audience?'

'Just fifty. Actually, it was larger than we'd anticipated. It seems everyone has something to say about your show.'

Tell me something I don't know, Josh thought. His latest view of the TWoP website still rankled. Eventually he broke the uncomfortable silence, observing a little too brightly, 'Busy little bast …er … beavers, weren't they?'

Without picking up any of the papers, he could make out some words written in a childish scrawl. 'Pore Marisa', 'I hate Volchuck!' and' Summers a bitch!' seemed commonplace. Others, penned in firm hands, were opinionated and dismissing. Phrases like 'repetitive story arcs', 'plot contrivances' and 'Give Ryan back his balls!' leapt out at him.

Donovan continued. 'We were able to build what we believe is an accurate viewer response to The OC and, in particular, to these episodes. Firstly, the sample audience was 80 per cent female, and the ages ranged from fourteen to forty-two, with the majority being in the eighteen to twenty-four year old category, which is pretty much in line with your usual audience profile.'

At least we got something right, Josh reflected. The silence of Donovan's cohorts was beginning to unnerve him and he wondered why they'd bothered to come at all. Their faces were blank, their expressions inscrutable, and Josh was tempted to ask them to leave. Reluctantly, he dragged his attention back to Donovan, who was now speaking slowly, as though addressing a rather dim child.

'Some interesting points were raised by the viewers. I would like to address them individually. The biggest issue seems to be the deterioration of the writing. Most viewers complained of the lack of any realistic dialogue, the repetition of story arcs, the seemingly endless downward spiral of Marissa Cooper, the loss of real camaraderie between Seth and Ryan and, last but not least, the complete emasculation of Ryan Atwood.'

'Is that all,' Josh asked faintly. He needed a drink.

'Actually, no. There's been a lot of criticism about Sandy's unbelievably rapid descent into the world of dodgy business dealings, a lot of sympathy for Matt, a bit of bitching about Kirsten, endless complaints about Marissa and Volchok, quite a demand for new and improved music, a call for more scenes involving Taylor, another call for fewer scenes involving Kaitlin, and an unprecedented eighty-seven percent of viewers asked that Ryan either be killed off completely to put him out of his misery, or restore him to his former angsty self.' He looked up apologetically. 'Their words, not mine.'

Josh glared at him. 'Did anyone say anything positive?'

Donovan sifted through his file. 'Um, yes. There are a few comments praising the consistency of Julie, though these have been coupled with complaints about her choice in men, and why she can't support herself. A few people grieved the loss of Gus, because his few scenes with Julie injected much needed humour.'

'But there's plenty of humour in the show!' spluttered Josh indignantly.

'Not according to our survey. Fifty-four per cent said they missed the easy jokes between Seth and Ryan, eighteen per cent asked for a return of the Seth/Summer spark, twenty-three per cent demanded more of Taylor, stating she was such a caricature she was a joy to watch, and two per cent wondered if Sandy had undergone a personality transplant.'

Josh, who'd busily jotted down the figures, looked up. 'And the remaining three per cent?'

Donovan smiled blandly. 'They didn't appear to understand the question.'

'Great,' Josh muttered. He rubbed his eyes.

'Now, onto the acting.' Donovan continued, mercilessly. 'We made a point of asking each viewer prior to seeing the episodes which actor they particularly admired, to see if the influence of a performance in a particular episode would have any effect.'

'And?'

'It didn't. The thirty-five per cent who favoured Ryan Atwood still favoured Ryan Atwood after seeing the episodes. The same applied to all fan groups. Most interesting however was that the seven per cent who stated that their favourite actress on The OC was Reese Witherspoon still maintained her superiority after watching this episode.'

'That's not funny!' muttered Josh, making a note to call Witherspoon's agent. After all, nothing ventured …

Donovan chuckled. 'No. However, most of the sample audience thought Marissa did a sterling job playing the sulky troubled teenager, though more than a few commented that her self-absorption has well and truly expired its use-by date. Overwhelming support for Ryan and Sadie, though many still prefer angry Ryan to happy Ryan, even if it does mean he's getting laid. As I said, lots of positive feedback about Julie. Some criticism of Summer and Seth, and a huge fifty-six per cent want some … and I quote … 'Kandy' moments. Whatever that means.'

It means I'm screwed, thought Josh.

'Moving onto the subject of audience demands, one hundred per cent of Ryan's fan base want to see more sex scenes involving Ryan and … well, pretty much anyone actually. There were a number of requests for more nudity followed by an overwhelming demand for better lighting so the audience can actually see what's happening.'

'Fucking voyeurs,' Josh snarled unhappily.

Donovan ignored his outburst. He was quite used to delivering bad news. 'Now, Summer received a B- rating from seventy-two per cent of the audience. Main criticisms included lack of support for Marissa's troubles, concern for her loss of weight since Season One, and confusion for her sudden understanding and acceptance of Julie as a potential step-mother. Marissa scored the same rating, but with a ninety-four percentile, mostly for the reasons I've already mentioned. Seth scored a B+ rating, but with a smaller percentile, and most were happy to see him figure more prominently in the current story arcs. Ryan scored an A, but then we realized that only twenty-eight percent of the viewers had voted so after two more attempts, during which non-supporters were threatened with physical violence and votes against the actor were either stolen or destroyed, I abandoned the count. Therefore, for these episodes, he is not rated at all. I will add, however, that nearly all comments, positive and negative, demanded a return to the Ryan of old.'

He glanced down again at his report. 'That about sums it up. On the subject of direction, seventy-four per cent believed there wasn't any. The scripts scored an abysmal thirteen per cent approval rating. And anything else you want to know is in here. The stats are pretty comprehensive.' He stood up and leaned over the pile of papers to hand the report to Josh.

Josh took it numbly. 'Stats huh?' he muttered, trying to make light of the situation. 'You know what they say: there are lies, damned lies and statistics.'

Donovan regarded him gravely. 'Indeed they do.'

Josh coughed, as Donovan's party made ready to leave. 'So, in light of all this, why the hell does anyone watch the damned show?'

Donovan paused at the door and shook his head. 'I really couldn't say. Perhaps they're hoping for a miracle.'

Great, thought Josh, staring at the closed door. Now we're back to the whole God thing.

**tbc**


	3. Chapter 3

_**Take Three**_

Ryan peered at his reflection worriedly.

'Do I look old?' he asked Seth, who was sprawled across the sofa, his long legs draped carelessly over one end, engrossed in yet another fan fiction he'd printed off the internet. He was squinting in an attempt to decipher the words, written without the aid of punctuation or a dictionary, and so deep in concentration that he completely ignored his friend's question, prompting Ryan to stalk over and snatch the offending pages from Seth. He crumpled them into a ball and hurled it across the room.

'Hey!' protested Seth mildly. 'I was enjoying that. You and Mom were just about to get down and dirty, you having naturally rescued her from a bottle of Tequila and a rather lecherous Dr Griffin.' He paused and studied the ceiling. 'At least that's what I think it said. It was so badly written it was hard to tell what was happening. How do people come up with these ideas?' The question was clearly rhetorical, because he continued musing aloud, without pause. 'Actually, I rather like the idea of you and Mom spending an illicit night together. I've always wanted a little brother .. or sister. Just think, a kid blessed with the Atwood brawn, the Cohen brains and Nicholls' good looks. Oh! The possibilities are endless ….what's the matter?' he finally ended. Ryan, clearly, was not sharing his excitement.

'Do I look old?' Ryan repeated impatiently.

'Compared to what?'

'Compared to an eighteen-year old. I'm supposed to be eighteen, remember?'

Seth sat up and sighed. 'Oh I get it. You've been reading the fan boards again, haven't you? Man, ya gotta stay away. Seriously, they'll do your head in. Try fan fiction instead. It's much more fun.' He stood up to retrieve his story, but Ryan blocked his path menacingly.

'I'm serious, Seth.' Then he paused, as Seth's words registered. 'Why, what _are_ they saying on the message boards?'

'Oh.' Seth looked away guiltily. 'Nothing. Really.' An ominous silence greeted this denial. 'Anyway why the sudden concern about your looks?'

Now it was Ryan's turn to duck his eyes. 'No reason.'

'Crap. Ryan Atwood always has a reason. Even if no one else knows what it is.'

Ryan shrugged helplessly. 'It was just something Volchok said,' he muttered. 'No big deal.'

'Are you kidding?' Seth yelped. 'Of course it's a big deal. It's the biggest deal since the conception of Chrismukkah. Bigger, in fact.'

Ryan glared at him. 'So I am looking old?' he challenged.

Seth waved him off. 'Not that, man. Stop self-obsessing, for God's sake. I'm talking about the Vulture. I had no idea he could string two words together.' He thought for a moment. 'How many words did he use, by the way? Did he just point and grunt, "Old", or did he actually construct a meaningful sentence?'

Ryan shook his head. He was torn between a desire to laugh and a need to lash out and hit something. Seth presented a natural target. But he was saved from having to make this awkward decision as Seth shouldered his satchel and clapped him on the back.

'I would love to stay and discuss aging and its fundamental ramifications upon the human psyche all of which, by the way, could be remedied with a quick visit to our good friend and my potential father-in-law, Dr Roberts, but I can't. I've got a scene with Taylor in an hour.' He regarded Ryan more seriously, making an attempt to console him. 'I wouldn't worry about it. You look your age.'

'That's the point, Seth,' Ryan snapped. 'Exactly which age do I look? The one I am or the one I'm supposed to be?'

Seth ferreted in his bag and brought out a sheaf of papers. He waved them at Ryan. 'Doesn't matter, Bro. You could be a hundred and five and the fans are still gonna want to see you punching someone or fucking someone. It's all in the fiction, man. Do yourself a favour and start reading.' He tossed them onto the coffee table, and watched as Ryan shuddered. 'Or, we could share some nachos and fries?'

'Sounds good,' Ryan replied, the relief in his voice unmistakable.

Outside the trailer, Seth considered his friend critically. 'On second thoughts, maybe I'll have the nachos and fries and you can chow down on a salad. That extra weight probably isn't helping your problem.' He ducked away as Ryan aimed a not-so-friendly punch at his shoulder.

'I thought you said there wasn't a problem,' Ryan growled.

'Think of it as a precautionary measure, buddy,' Seth replied airily, unmindful of Ryan's growing wrath. 'I'd consider growing your hair again, too. That longer, shaggy style took years off you. Just a few shots of botox would get rid of those … uh … character lines around your eyes. And … _Ow!_'

Ryan's decision, it seemed, had not been a difficult one after all.

……………………………………………………………………………..

Kirsten was bored. She thumbed idly through a magazine, scouring for any references to her in its glossy pages. The makeup girl hovered, applying base with deft strokes and chattering endlessly. Kirsten, who didn't approve of gossip, only pretended not to listen because it was a well-known fact that if you wanted to find out what was really happening on the set, makeup artists were your best source of information. For secondary sources of information, one went to Catering, or Wardrobe, or spoke to the technicians or even the guy who operated the boom gate; basically anyone except those in charge, who clearly knew nothing.

'Have you heard Marissa's leaving?' the girl asked as she painted Kirsten's lips dexterously, with quick, easy strokes. Kirsten stiffened. It was a little like going to the dentist, she thought, irritated, where the really juicy questions were asked only once one's mouth had been pried open and filled with any number of sharp steel instruments, rendering one unable to reply. Her eyes flickered to the girl in surprise and she bobbed her brows up and down with practiced mute skill: _Do tell!_

'Oh yes, everyone knows. Apparently she's been asking to leave for some time and Josh is so fed up with it he's finally agreed.' The girl paused and studied her work before downing the lip gloss.

Kirsten sighed with relief. She couldn't get the words out fast enough. 'Do you mean she's leaving or do you mean she's _leaving_?'

By unspoken agreement, the cast never openly discussed the possibility of anyone's demise on the show. In reel life, one's existence was as much at the mercy of temperamental writers and producers as one's real life was controlled by the whims of a capricious god, bored upon his cloud. Fate's heavy hand was everywhere, it seemed, and it was taboo to utter the words 'death' or 'killed off' when gossiping about any of the other characters. No matter how much one might wish certain people gone.

'Oh, _leaving_,' the makeup girl replied airily, holding her fingers high and bending them around the word, leaving no doubt as to her meaning. 'Definitely. I mean, don't tell anyone I told you this, but Betty from Wardrobe was talking to Jeb in Lighting who was told by Andy from Sets who got it first-hand from Katrina in Catering who swore she saw Josh talking to Marissa _and_ … Marissa was smiling.'

Kirsten stared at the girl, nonplussed. 'Sorry … you've lost me.'

The girl arched her brows incredulously and pointed the hairbrush at Kirsten. 'When was the last time you saw Marissa smile?'

Kirsten opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again. The girl had a point.

'So what happened next?' she asked, despite herself.

'Well,' the girl hissed dramatically. 'Katrina was called away, so she didn't actually see this, but Shannen told her later that Mark – he's one of the cleaners – found out from Bob who got it from Kelly who's dating Stan – the guy who empties the trash – that when he went to clear Marissa's trailer, he found her crying …'

'And Marissa told him why she was upset!' Kirsten finished, comprehension finally dawning.

'Oh no. She threw a shoe at him and told him to fuck off, but he'd already read the confidential memo that Josh had tossed in the wastebasket instead of the shredding bin, so he knew what it was about.'

'So does he – er – Stan know … how it's going to happen?' Kirsten whispered, horrified by her somewhat ghoulish interest in Marissa's supposed end.

But the girl just winked and waggled a finger. 'Now, now,' she admonished. 'That'd be telling, wouldn't it?'

……………………………………………………………………………….

Josh had called a Special Pre-production Important Networking meeting (aptly shortened to SPIN). It had been intended for the cast only, but these things have a way of getting out, so by the appointed time there was standing room only in one of the network's smaller meeting rooms. The larger ones were reserved for those shows that rated well. As The OC had hardly rated at all so far this season, Josh felt only relief that he hadn't been assigned the 'broom closet', that dank, windowless cell where all hopeful creators eventually expired.

'Thank you all for coming,' he began, pretending to ignore those who hadn't been invited in the first place. Despite public opinion, Josh wasn't an idiot. By calling a private meeting, he'd ensured that everything about to be said within this room would be common knowledge by lunchtime.

'As you know, we're flagging in the ratings-'

'Have been since the second episode,' muttered Sandy under his breath, but loudly enough for all to hear and was rewarded for his efforts by a glare from his maker.

Josh cleared his throat and started again. 'Anyway, the network has decided we need to end with a … er … bang this season. They don't want another shooting or an overdose or an arrest or anything else that will be resolved within the first few minutes of next season.' He paused and glanced at the cast, all of whom shuffled nervously. A few of the makeup girls and a cameraman who'd sneaked in tittered behind their hands.

'What they want is for one of you to … um … die.' A few gasps told him that at least some people weren't privy to everything that happened on the set. 'And, what the network wants, the network gets. Fortunately, the painful decision of which of you is to meet with a grisly end was made for me - rather magnanimously I must say - by Marissa.' Everyone stared a little puzzled and, annoyed that the cast hadn't grasped the subtle significance of his words, he snapped: 'She's asked for it to be her!'

There was a collective 'Oh!' and the sound of scraping chairs as everyone craned to look at the girl who was, it seemed, willing to sacrifice everything for the sake of the show. A few even applauded.

'You bastard!' Marissa spat, engendering more puzzled looks. 'That's not what I said, and you know it.' Eyes and open mouths swiveled back to Josh in a parody of sideshow clowns.

'You said you wanted to die,' Josh protested calmly.

Marissa stood and leaned over the table. The clowns turned and watched. 'Yeah!' she yelled and tugged at her long locks. 'My hair, you fucking deaf dumbass! I said I wanted to dye my hair!'

'Oh,' said Josh, feigning contrition. 'I'm afraid I didn't catch the last bit.' A stony silence descended.

'What colour?' Summer asked suddenly.

Marissa pulled on a lock and glanced down, pouting. 'I dunno. I was thinking maybe blonde … or even red.'

'Not red,' piped up one of the hairstylists from under the table. 'It wouldn't suit your skin tones and you can always tell a bottle red.'

Marissa bent down. 'Really? What about some really heavy platinum highlights, then? Or maybe I could go the whole way. You know, Marilyn Munroe?'

The stylist scurried out and, pushing Marissa firmly back into her chair, began to pull at her hair like a grooming monkey. 'Mmmm .. no – I'd stick with the highlights. They'd need to be really heavy to make a noticeable difference, but we could two-tone it-'

'That'd look great, Coop!' enthused Summer.

'I think it looks great now,' muttered Ryan. Actually he had no interest in her hair at all, only in those other parts of her body he'd always been forbidden to touch, parts that now would be forever out of reach. _Fucking network_, he thought glumly.

She flashed one of her dazzling smiles at him. 'Thanks, Ryan.'

He stared morosely at her breasts. 'You're welcome.'

'If you've quite finished,' thundered Josh. 'Do you think we could get back to the matter at hand?'

'If I'm about to die, then you'd better start being nice to me,' Marissa snapped.

Josh sank his head in his hands and groaned.

'Everyone knows you have to be nice to people who are dying,' Marissa said primly. The other characters murmured their assent.

'She's right, Josh. You wouldn't speak like that to a child with Leukemia, would you?' Dr Roberts rebuked gently.

Josh looked at him in disbelief before grinding out, slowly, 'She doesn't fucking have fucking Leukemia, Neil.'

'Well, whatever the cause, the result is the same. She's dying. That's what you said.' Neil placed an arm protectively around Marissa, who smirked at Josh.

'I never said she was dying!' he shouted, thumping his hands on the table. 'I said one of you is going to die. I hadn't actually decided to accept Marissa's offer.'

'Oh.' Now it was Marissa's turn to sound contrite. 'Um … so can I dye my hair then?' she asked, ridding herself of Neil's arm, which had suddenly become heavy and more than a little paternal.

'No!' Josh roared. 'Shut up with the hair, will you? Just shut up. All of you!' The stylist dived under the table again.

Sandy said, 'I don't get it. Who is going to die, then?'

'Whoever pisses me off enough!' snarled Josh before storming out of the room.

……………………………………………………………………………….

'There's no way around this, then?' asked McG. He was lounging in Josh's office, jiggling his leg with nervous energy. He'd been there five minutes and Josh was already exhausted. Gritting his teeth, he attempted to ignore the other man as he added his expenses. Again.

'No. … three hundred and fifty plus sixty-two equals …'

'So do you think they bought it?'

'Four hundred and twelve,' Josh said loudly. 'Plus four hundred and thirteen equals ….'

McG finally broke the long and painful silence. 'Eight hundred twenty-five. You didn't answer my question.'

'What question? Plus fifty-four … is … oh fuck it!' He punched a button on the phone. 'Janine, come in here.'

'Did they buy the bullshit about Marissa not being the one?'

The door opened and a petite blonde entered the room. Josh passed her a wad of receipts. 'Add these up for me, will you?' She nodded efficiently and left the room.

Josh sighed with relief. 'I dunno. I hope so. We can't afford for this to get out before the finale airs.'

They both fell silent at the thought of the fans' outrage when news of Marissa's impending death became public knowledge.

'Can't it be someone else?' asked McG.

Josh looked at him wearily. 'She wants to dye her hair.'

McG was startled. 'Really?'

'Really.'

'What colour?'

Josh rolled his eyes. What was with the interest in hair colour? 'Blonde apparently.'

McG considered this for a moment and shuddered. 'Oh no, that won't do at all.' He stood to leave. 'Of course, we'll have to put out the usual story.'

'Wants to pursue a movie career?'

'Is there any other?' laughed McG. He paused to regard the picture of Marissa hung on the wall of Josh's office, alongside a brooding Ryan, a smiling Sandy, a gaunt-looking Kirsten and a sultry Julie. 'It's a pity,' he sighed, and closed the door behind him.

Yes, mused Josh. It was a pity. If only he'd thought of it earlier, ratings might be far higher than they were. Fortune, after all, favoured only the brave.

……………………………………………………………………………

'What are you smiling about?' Marissa asked Ryan as he bounded up to her. She held up coils of hair samples. 'Which do you prefer, Tippex or Ash?'

Ryan shrugged. 'Either. Both. Don't care because …' he paused dramatically. 'I'm having sex!'

Marissa eyed him warily. 'Um … that's great. I'm very happy for you.' Then a horrible thought occurred to her. 'Who with?'

'Oh don't worry. It's not with you.' Her relief was tangible and at any other time it would have irritated Ryan. But not today. He flipped open the latest script. 'A waitress. Name's Chloe.'

Marissa hadn't yet bothered to open the script, let alone read it. She sighed and said, petulantly, 'I miss Sadie.'

Ryan nodded. He missed Sadie too, but probably not for the same reasons.

Marissa returned to her colour chart and, feigning casual interest, asked, 'So is this going to be a long term thing, or just a fling?'

'Dunno. There's just the one scene so far.'

'Oh, so it's a pointlessly gratuitous scene to please your rabid fan base?' Marissa enquired bitchily. 'Better make the most of it.

Ryan scowled. He hadn't thought it possible, but she was even managing to ruin a sex scene in which she had no part.

'Why can't you just be happy for me?' he asked.

'Like you were happy for me when Volchok and I hooked up?' Marissa snapped.

'That was different. I'm supposed to hate him, remember. You don't even know Chloe.'

'Neither do you, yet!' retorted Marissa before returning to her hair colour swatches.

He grinned lasciviously. 'Yeah, but I will.' There was a perverse satisfaction to be gained from the distasteful expression on her face. Then he frowned. 'I just hope they have some better lighting this time. It would be nice to actually see what I'm kissing for a change.'

'What is it with you and those damned lights? I much prefer doing it in the dark,' Marissa said, holding up another coil of hair that looked just like the last one.

'Yeah, I know,' Ryan muttered bitterly.

'Thank God Kevin doesn't care about silly things like that.' She looked up at Ryan coyly. 'All he's interested in is whether the scene requires me to be topless. He's sooo bad!' she giggled.

Then, holding the flaxen coil to her face, where it rendered her usually perfect skin to the consistency and colour of beeswax, she asked, 'What do you think?'

'It suits you,' Ryan lied easily. Leaving her to it, he stalked away to find Seth. He, at least, would be happy his friend was finally going to get some. And as he walked he punched a number into his cell phone.

'Josh? Ryan. Listen man, do me a favour, will you? If it is Marissa … yeah, I know what you said … I'm just saying, if it is her … well, I wanna be there.'

**tbc**


End file.
